


Rising and Falling

by twined



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Please Brush Teeth After Reading, Smut, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, all the good things really, ineffable husbands, supernatural wedding ceremony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 19:45:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19482751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twined/pseuds/twined
Summary: or,5 Times Crowley Covertly Obsessed About Aziraphale’s Penis, and One Time He Didn’t Hide Itand,5 Times Aziraphale Secretly Admired Crowley’s Hair, and One Time He Admitted It





	1. Part One: Crowley

**Author's Note:**

> I never believed authors who would actually say "I can't believe I wrote this, or that I'm posting this, I'm so ashamed." But now I understand.

_Part One: 5 Times Crowley Covertly Obsessed About Aziraphale’s Penis, and One Time He Didn’t Hide It_

  1. _First Hug_



Since the Beginning, Crowley has been careful not to touch Aziraphale. They’ve met many times whilst helping the humans prosper (Crowley to create more chances for temptation, obviously; Aziraphale for the joy of watching humanity bloom.) But they have never gotten too close. Opposing forces, and all.

He’s under the impression that angels don’t really _touch._ He doesn’t remember much touching, and it doesn’t match the general holier-than-thou aura surrounding them now more than ever. Demons touch all the time—to tempt, to threaten, to kill. He’s sort of worried about repelling the angel, and sort of worried he’ll get too attached. So although Crowley rather dislikes the distance, he is careful to maintain it, for centuries.

It takes those centuries for Crowley to realize that Aziraphale differs from the others in this way, too. He’s fast to squeeze a shoulder reassuringly, to pick up a crying child and rock them. While other angels keep a sort of professional detachment, Aziraphale comforts humans in a tactile as well as spiritual manner. Perhaps Crowley’s serpent eyes watch with a twinge of secret envy at the careless affection the angel gives away for free. Perhaps he stalks a few of its recipients through the night, wondering what exactly made them deserving of such a boon. For the next several millennia, however, the only audience to these turbulent feelings is a small collection of terrified plants.

Crowley never imagines such affection will extend to himself. However, Aziraphale is ( _ ~~quite secretly, mind you~~_ ) not one to always adhere to expectations.

It’s during one of their two-for-one deals. There’s a minor kerfuffle going on in China between neighboring regions. Both Heaven and Hell want the country unified for their own purposes. Crowley figures it doesn’t much matter which human does the unifying, as long as it gets done. As a tiny favor to the angel—well, Crowley will cast it as “ _just a more convincing disguise, it’s what you would’ve done”_ but Aziraphale knows better—Crowley helps along the man with a kinder, more judicious heart. It saves quite a few lives and leads to long-term prosperity and several wonders of engineering. “ _Just more people for me to tempt,”_ Crowley quips when Aziraphale learns what Crowley’s done.

“You can’t lie to me, that’s a lovely thing you did,” Aziraphale insists. Crowley rolls his eyes, but nonetheless the delighted angel throws his arms around him and pulls him close.

Crowley has never been hugged before. It takes him a few seconds to realize that’s what’s going on—not some kind of elaborate attack or exorcism ritual. He gives Aziraphale’s back an awkward pat. But then it lasts longer than he’s ready for, and he ends up returning the hug for lack of any better ideas.

Crowley hasn’t touched an angel since he _was_ one, more than a few millennia past. He’s forgotten how you can almost feel the divinity coursing through their earthly shell. This angel’s body is soft, but sturdy. He’s shamelessly leaned into Crowley, and he takes too long and, well, Crowley is only a demon.

His mind wanders to that _thing_ ‘gainst his thigh.

It’s a warm weight, certainly _there_ despite their robes—interesting, given that most angels tend to leave them at home. It squishes sort of nicely—not aroused or anything, just warmly and comfortably close as the rest of the angel. Crowley wonders if he could feel the divinity even more acutely through that most sensitive of skin. He wonders if he’d feel the angel’s heartbeat, and if it would match his own. If their sweat would be a messy nuisance or a sweet slick lubricant.

With a final pat, Crowley asserts, “That’s quite enough of that, now.” Aziraphale blushes beautifully, and they part ways without their usual shared meal. The whole episode will be baffling Crowley for months to come.

In a few years Crowley’ll wonder if Aziraphale’s dick is whole, like his own, or modified, with one of those cutty things all the rage in the desert these days. Whassit called—a circumference? Surceasement? The Jews certainly think they’re holy, and Crowley wonders if they got that idea from a member of the Host. Despite having relived that hug numerous times, there was just too much cloth in the way to tell.

Suddenly Crowley realizes that it might be a problem, if he’s still remembering that hug and imagining a naked version twelve decades later.

He quickly locks that concern in a metal box at the far reaches of his mind, to be dealt with never. He has more important things to consider, like tempting the Greeks to invade Troy. He knows just the prince.

\---

  1. _Tailoring Mishaps_



It’s about three centuries after that poor Christ fellow, and his following is really picking up. Idol worship is down, wafer sales are up—wine consumption’s about the same. But sure enough, change is coming to the Roman Empire.

Some of those changes are better than others. For starters, there’s the chafing, and he’s not just talking about the orgies.

Crowley’s come across Aziraphale again and, for once, they’re fighting on the same side. It simplifies things, working together, but it makes a tiny little bugger of warmth slip into Crowley’s chest. Probably side effects of too much angelic contact. He tries to swat it away, metaphysically.

“Ask you something?” Crowley says as they’re waiting up half the night for a certain patrol to wander by.

“Certainly.”

“These newfangled trouser things. You a fan?”

Aziraphale considers their sartorial state for a few moments. “I suppose I don’t have a problem with them.”

“Never thought they’d catch on, me. I rather hope they go out of style. Stay the way of barbarians, as it were.”

“I’m afraid the barbarians won’t be going out of style, either.”

Crowley thinks about what he saw yesterday concerning a certain Roman general, a goat, and a block of cheese. “Ahh, shit, you’re probably right.” He sighs.

They fall into a comfortable silence for a while, waiting and watching the road, before Crowley can’t help himself: “Doesn’t it _rub_ though?”

“Rub?”

“Yeah, you know. Your dangly bits. Certainly more constricting than a tunic. I was nearly raw the first week, all the rubbing.”

Aziraphale sputters in the most adorable way, “I—well—I don’t--!” A deep breath, steadfastly averted eyes, and he continues, “Are you sure you’re wearing them properly?”

“ _Yes_ I’m wearing them properly—there’s not much to mess up, is there? One leg per hole, get’em right side right and all.” Crowley keeps grumbling while Aziraphale pretends to keep up surveillance.

“Maybe—well—it’s possible,” the angel starts.

“Hmm?” Crowley is satisfied to catch the angel stealing a glance.

“They might be a tad tight on you. My first pair was. That gets—uncomfortable. Get a looser pair and a belt, that’ll do.”

“Huh.”

Blessed, blessed silence reigns for all of twenty minutes. Crowley’s not a terrible stakeout partner, all things considered, but motion is his natural state. He is no wait-patiently-then-strike predator like a cobra, Aziraphale muses. He rather prefers the active chase—perhaps a black mamba, then.

In any case, Aziraphale’s thoughts about what sort of reptile Crowley most resembles are interrupted when the subject thereof can’t keep quiet anymore.

“Do you miss the breeze? I miss the breeze.”

“Crowley!”

“It certainly doesn’t breathe like a tunic. Or even a toga. And it pulls when you walk. How did you get them right?” Crowley gazes searchingly at Aziraphale’s crotch, trying to figure how the angel can stand it.

“Oh, for—” the angel snaps, and everything adjusts.

The relief is instant. Nothing is too tight, it hangs just right, and his groin is protected by a delightful liner of something other than the scratchy wool of the trousers.

“Is this silk?” Crowley asks. You can’t find that outside of China.

“It eases the roughness, having a softer layer between.”

“Ahh, so you actually cope by swaddling your—"

“We are never to speak of this again. From now on, you figure out your own clothing,” Aziraphale declares. Unfortunately for him, this is not the last time he’ll be compelled to complain about Crowley’s skintight pants.

The centuries pass and still Crowley wonders about that silk.

\---

  1. _Death Erections_



“Lovely day for a hangin’, innit?”

Crowley flashes an awkward smile at the woman, hoping it comes off affirmative. He searches the crowd, but can’t find their prisoners. It’s getting desperate. He’d only found out hours ago that they were scheduled to execute—

He’d been a few colonies away at the time, but that didn’t slow him by much.

Too many demonic miracles too close together, and Hell starts making inquiries—that’s why it’s so delicate, when he and the angel interact—if Hell comes calling about the amount of occult power being used and discovers it’s being used to save his best friend—well. 

So Crowley saves up his miracles, travelling the human way and figuring he has enough time to get there before noon. He does, with the help of a monstrous black stallion that seems to scare other horses, mules, people, and the occasional abandoned wagon off the road. But he arrived in Boston hours ago, and can’t seem to find a trace of any of the so-called Loyalist Spies they’re set to off at lunchtime. Apparently their location was being kept hush-hush, to avoid the exact kind of escape Crowley was about to attempt.

Had Crowley been human, it might have stopped him. As it were, he was still unforgivably slowed and ready to give up on this revolution altogether.

From the corner of his shaded eyes, Crowley recognizes the silversmith he’d guided a month or two back. Perfect!

“My good man,” he greets, adopting a New England accent.

“Mr. Crow! How excellent you’ve arrived. You’re just in time to witness the deaths of some traitors to the cause.”

“Yes, Paul, about that. I, well, I’m afraid—” he drops his voice. Nothing to rouse a human’s interest and trust like seeming to divulge a secret. “I’m afraid one of the Loyalists might be… more sympathetic than you realize.”

His companion’s brows raised.

“I believe you’ve captured a friend of mine who was—playing both sides, I suppose. Pretending to fawn over the crown to gather information. It would be just terrible to lose a Patriot because he was too good an actor! But if I reveal him, there goes our valuable information. Do you see my problem?”

“That would indeed harm the cause… what is this fellow’s name, then?”

“Oh, he’s always used a pseudonym in our correspondence, for our mutual safety. But I’m certain if you take me to them, I can point out the right man.”

The man stops to think about it only for a moment, before smiling wide and leading him away towards the docks.

“I knew you were the man to see!” Crowley exclaims, and the what’s-his-name beams with pride at his own importance, leading a demon straight into the heart of their secrets.

It’s little more than a stockyard, although the extra footpaths and smaller, extraneous quays ( _especially that half-hidden one_ ) indicate to Crowley that some extrajudicial trade might be taking place here away from the tax collectors’ eyes. Through two locked doors and down into a basement, he finds Aziraphale waiting, playing cards with a guard while handcuffed to a full lot of other prisoners.

“Mister—ah—Smith!” Crowley declares, making everyone turn.

“Oh!” the angel blinks rapidly, smiling before he catches himself and schools the expression. “Mister, C. Mr. C. How are you?”

“Just here clearing up this little misunderstanding.” He turns to the guard, who is looking between him and his what’s-his-face, someone who is obviously the guard’s superior. “The collection of this one was a mistake. He’s one of ours,” Crowley tells the little man.

The guard looks baffled.

“Well—unlock him!” Crowley growls.

“I, I can’t just—”

“It’s alright, Tom,” Paul soothes, “We can trust this man’s word. He claims this man is performing subterfuge on both sides—not a Tory at all, just a clever actor dissembling for information.”

“So I should…?” “Tom” mimics unlocking the cuffs.

“Yes, chap. Let the poor fellow go! Clearly you could tell he’s a good sort, otherwise you’d _never_ fraternize with prisoners, right?”

“Right, right, of course,” Tom scrambles to his keychain and fumbles with it until Aziraphale is free. The other prisoners look on hungrily, but only one is brave enough to protest underneath Crowley’s glare. He earns a hard backhand.

“Shut it, Loyalist scum!” Crowley shouts theatrically before dragging Aziraphale out of that pit.

They ride hard for the edge of town.

“Oh, thank you. That was very kind of you. You know it’s such a nuisance, losing a body.”

“Don’t mention it. Truly. Don’t.”

“I was not at all looking forward to the process of being hanged.”

“Yeah, well. I don’t understand the appeal. Just eyes and tongues bugging out, and everyone always gets a massive erection. No one needs to see that from a dead guy.”

“A massive _what?”_ Ariraphale pauses whilst brushing the dirt from his clothes.

“Erection, of course. Have you never stayed to watch after they pull the lever? It takes ages to actually die, and the whole time you and your friends would have all shared the hardest knobs of your lives. Sometimes folks cut them off just so they don’t have to watch. Or for kicks, I guess.” Crowley shrugs, as if to say, _Humans. What can you do?_

“Ahh, well. Oh my.” Aziraphale gulps. “That’s… quite something.”

“So really it’s purely selfish, saving you. Don’t want to have crowds being exposed to that sort of thing. They’d probably all convert in a fit of religious ecstasy.”

“At the sight of my…?”

“Well it is heavenly. In the technical, literal definition of the word even.”

“Hmm. I don’t know. Perhaps you weren’t preventing their conversions, but really protecting them from the temptation of lust.”

“Never!”

They share offended noises and smile.

Later that day from Quebec, Crowley is checking out the angel’s high-waisted trousers—practically leggings, they are—and muses it’s certainly for the best that no one got an even better view of all that.

When he saves Aziraphale from nearly the same fate just a few years later in France, the infuriating man doesn’t even have the excuse of trying to maintain world peace. Crowley is annoyed, but it’s short-lived, because he can never stay annoyed long once his angel is smiling like that.

Every day is a good day to avoid death-erections.

\---

  1. _Wood._



They’ve sort of developed a pattern, which is a dangerous thing when one is trying to avoid the nosy interference of both Heaven and Hell.

Aziraphale is comfortable in London. It’s got people from all over the world, so he can spread his influence quite a bit from this one place without all the miracles of travel. It’s just hours by boat and these revolutionary “rail” things to any of the cuisine in Europe, and some of the more exciting advancements in science and literature are all happening right here. He’s settled in now for a few decades in a lovely little bookshop where he never sells anything.

Crowley has little caches all over the world, but their pattern, now, is London.

He will never admit—or so he now believes—that he sort of likes the domesticity of knowing where Aziraphale usually is, knowing where he buys his tea and sits and reads into the night. He enjoys the delight Aziraphale has gained in this place for its last nigh-on-three centuries related to the arts. So, when he can, Crowley uses that little bookshop—bigger on the inside—to confide in and confer with his certainly-not-a-friend.

They’ve just finished a pair of jobs and eaten—well, Aziraphale usually does the eating—at the very first curry house to have opened up on their side of town. It’s regarded as a bizarre novelty by the posher residents, but Aziraphale genuinely loves the mix of spices and flavors.

Now they’ve downed two bottles of wine and are lounging in the back of the bookstore, chatting about where they’ve been recently and what they’ve been up to. Crowley loses his hat, cravat, and uncomfortable shoes quite quickly, but Aziraphale only slightly adjusts his bowtie as the night goes on.

A comfortable silence then reigns. Crowley, none of his limbs arranged in the chair where they’re supposed to be, falls asleep first.

He doesn’t wake until an annoying slant of sunlight hits his eyes quite precisely the next morning. He would miracle away the hangover, but always figures he sort of deserves it. Nonetheless, he glares at the light, and the world, and gropes about for his dark glasses.

Once that’s sorted, though, the sight of Aziraphale makes him a smidge breathless.

The angel is delicately arranged on the too-small loveseat, knees bent and tilted, one arm curled behind his head. His lips are just slightly parted and his angelic nature shines through even now. Crowley couldn’t look away if a knife were pressed to his throat.

He’s never seen Aziraphale asleep.

Not that either of them _needs_ to sleep—just as they don’t need to breathe or eat or enjoy life. But they both enjoy it on occasion, especially after one-too-many glasses of wine. It’s no great shock to Crowley that his drunken mind trusted Aziraphale instinctively enough to drift off in his presence. He’s more surprised that the gesture was returned in kind.

He’s not sure how long he watches Aziraphale. Long enough for a quiet snuffle and readjustment from the sleeping angel. Then, long enough to observe Aziraphale develop his morning erection.

 _That_ is quite the sight.

His pants are still on, sure, but it’s prominently visible from the first twitch. Some voice in the back of his head asks Crowley whether he’d better not look away and leave Aziraphale’s body to its devices, but Crowley throws that voice out as violently as… as something violent. Who has time for similes when watching an angel’s arousal bloom, while said angel sleeps innocently on?

Crowley can see the rhythm of the angel’s heartbeat, because the erection grows and twitches a smidge with each one. Crowley certainly hopes the fabric of that suit is forgiving, because any scratchiness or constraint against _that_ would be highly uncomfortable. Unless there’s a certain silken lining or undergarment, which, well—that’s an image he’ll be revisiting later.

 _It’s gorgeous,_ he thinks without thinking. His heart really means _he’s_ gorgeous, his angel, his light, but Crowley is a demon and lewdness is safer than softness. So he confines himself to thinking, _That is a gorgeous cock._

Another sniff and another shuffle, and suddenly Aziraphale’s hand is unconsciously cupping himself where he’s grown fully hard. Crowley’s eyes widen impossibly. Aziraphale’s breath turns the slightest bit harsher, and Crowley is gone in a snap before he loses all vestiges of self-control. He doesn’t return to the bookstore for thirteen years.

-

  1. _Solo_



Aziraphale loves to wrap himself up in layers of fine fabrics with delicate and tasteful patterns. Once, Crowley has the idle thought that it’s rather like he’s gift-wrapped himself, just waiting for some lucky lover to unwrap him bit by bit.

That unfortunate metaphor keeps him awake for days.

It’s obviously unfair, how the angel treats his clothing. It’s all delicate folding and exquisite care and hands running along to find the slightest trace of wrinkles. Aziraphale’s managed to make Crowley jealous of a _suit,_ and that’s just not fair.

These thoughts are swirling through his brain in the nineteen nineties as he’s causing all sorts of trouble with the emerging internet. That’s been keeping him busy—so, so much to do!—but it’s also easy to get distracted, given the sorts of things humans are keen on sharing through their dial-up connections.

Having just spent a full week with Aziraphale, and then getting blasted with images like _that,_ well—Crowley tries to be a good boy, but—demon.

It feels too good to slip into millennia of memories and seek out hints of skin, those few treasured touches. The more common, but still all-too-rare smiles. He clings to those memories and fills in the details with years of scrutiny and a vast imagination.

Thinking of the angel, it always begins with the lips. Crowley’s not a romantic—he can’t be, demons are _never_ romantic—but he likes to imagine starting with sweet kisses across the brow and cheeks, before the passion takes over. He imagines taking his time with every button, the human way, but in the lovely way of fantasies, he also gets to skip ahead to the good bits.

He imagines the angel committing blasphemy, letting out oaths and begging so pretty as Crowley strokes him. Takes his warm weight on his tongue. Rides the angel with an edge of desperation. Crowley tries to picture exactly how his Angel’s cock would look, disappearing inside of him. Not too many veins, surely? A good, proportional cock, maybe a slight curve and just the right amount of hair. He’d be warm and flushed, surely, and Crowley would give up no small amount of anything to have the chance to get his angel’s tip wet with pleasure, pulsing, wanting. An answering pulse rolls through his own body. Crowley’s already using both hands, cupping himself and stroking and twisting and imagining there are two pricks in his hands instead of just one, imagining the noises Aziraphale might make as they moved together—

Crowley doesn’t last long.

-

\+ 1: _Confessing_

There were several moments of near-confession, after the near-apocalypse.

There was, of course, the immediate relief of it being done, where Crowley nearly had out with it while they shared a glance that said all they couldn’t say out loud. Had he said it then, that would have led to a filmworthy kiss of exquisite sweetness and desperate, “ah, there-it-is” release. There was the celebratory late night after they’d survived their respective home offices; Crowley could have easily said something cliché like, “I’d face them a thousand times over, for you,” and Aziraphale would have smiled that smile that lit up whole cities, whole continents. There was even their first time re-visiting the ducks, where Aziraphale told him that he’d checked, and they definitely had ears, and Crowley thought, “Fuck it, let them hear, I have to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” For every near-confession, Crowley’s habitual secret-keeping, or terror, or wincing-internally-and-providing-sarcastic-commentary-instead, won out.

In the end, it was Aziraphale who confessed, much to their mutual astonishment.

It wasn’t a scene out of a movie, or from one of Aziraphale’s secret stash of bodice-rippers. It was, in fact, a perfectly average day in their new normal. Aziraphale was chiding Crowley as he intimidated his plants, Crowley was scrolling through patisserie recommendations to find a _totally spontaneous_ not-date to surprise his angel with, and the pair were puzzling over the intricacies of the modern supermarket as they tried to find Aziraphale an exact brand of flour that was “better for macarons than all the rest.”

And out of nowhere, covered in the same flour, halo nearly shining through the hazy cloud of it in Crowley’s kitchen, Aziraphale says the words. Crowley has a spot of cream on his cheek where he’d handled the electric mixer a bit too enthusiastically. Aziraphale reaches to swipe it off with his thumb, and, easy as sliding awake from a perfect night’s rest, says, “I’ve been in love with you since the beginning, you know.”

Crowley’s jaw hangs open beautifully, his eyes softened behind his dark glasses. He stands perfectly still for just a beat too long. Aziraphale’s hand is just dropping when the demon chokes out, “Yeah, same,” and leans in to kiss the heaven out of his angel.

Their macarons burn.

Aziraphale is so distraught that Crowley immediately whisks them away to Paris to find the biscuits they’d been trying to imitate in the first place. They hold hands the whole way through.

Later that night, after landing at the bookshop, Crowley shyly asks if they can touch more, again (although his words are stilted and incomplete). Aziraphale’s small smile is all that precedes their slow kiss, their gentle disrobing. It’s not entirely sexual—it’s more comfort and wonder than anything, finally being able to explore each other physically. They run hands over skin they’d previously only imagined, taste contours they’d memorized but never experienced.

Eventually Crowley gets to that part of Aziraphale which humans consider most intimate. To a point, Crowley understands why, but for now he’s still so overwhelmed that every touch seems that intimate, that precious.

For most of the act, there isn’t the urgency Crowley’d always imagined in his idle fantasies. Reverence and veneration overfill every soft caress and touch of lips. He tastes his angel’s body with the sweet indulgence Aziraphale himself generally reserved for hot crepes.

He was delighted to discover that Aziraphale makes much the same noises throughout both indulgences.

Crowley takes the time to taste every molecule and test out every trick and rhythm he can think of and a few he comes up with on the spot. He takes most of the night to bring Aziraphale to completion—not because he’s teasing, but because he’s savoring.

Their noises in the dim bookstore teach some of the folios even more than they’d ever imagined about carnal passion. This act of worship—for that’s truly what it is, on his knees and everything—will become Crowley’s favorite pastime and frequent craving. They’ll have time later for sweet torment and overwhelming urgency, but for now, they cradle their love between them, precious and still somewhat tentative, giving and giving and giving.

And Crowley can’t help but praise the universe, everyone and everything who brought them to this moment, where he once more knows perfection, and has nothing to hide from the only being who really matters.


	2. Part Two: Aziraphale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you only thought the last half was cotton candy
> 
> now we get the angel's side

_Part Two: 5 Times Aziraphale Secretly Admired Crowley’s Hair, and One Time He Admitted It_

-

  1. _Halo_



Angels have some trouble not going extra-dimensional, if they’re not paying attention. The more powerful ones have to devote real energy into not revealing themselves when they walk the earth—just a hint of halo, a stray feather, or a certain subcutaneous shine, and the gig is up. It takes some practice, learning to mask one’s grace.

Aziraphale spends more time on Earth than almost anyone else of the host, though, so it becomes second nature. He’s quick to point out when another angel is “showing.” To be helpful, of course. Not because visiting angels tend to be annoying and/or murderous.

Imagine his consternation when he almost lets slip the same warning to Crowley.

He barely reins in the, “ _Your halo’s showing, my dear.”_ What a disaster that could have been!

It’s an honest mistake, though. They’ve been chatting on a hillside, watching the sun come up and the sheep start to wake. Crowley’s hair tumbles down his shoulders, this decade. And the sunlight hits them just right, and the ginger locks seem to glow, and for a moment Aziraphale knows what it would’ve looked like to see Crowley’s halo.

It is breathtaking.

It is the first of many near-disasters for Aziraphale concerning Crowley’s hair.

-

  1. _Short_



The humans take awhile to figure out shears.

Swords, sure—Aziraphale himself had made sure they understood _one_ pointy metal bit. _Two_ pointy metal bits was going to take longer—approximately until the age of smelting, at least. In the meantime, anyone who got sick of their hair falling in their eyes or getting full of leaves and twigs and such had to make do with sawing it off on something sharp. Little wonder that most folks didn’t bother.

The angel’s hair is always exactly as it was _meant_ to be—it’s no trouble ensuring it never changes. Crowley has always let his go the way of the humans, though. _Trying it out native_ or something. So it’s always fallen lushly about his shoulders in that dazzling near-halo. Eventually, the Mesopotamians figure out shears, but it’s still Rome before Aziraphale sees Crowley with short hair.

It’s quite distracting, when they meet in that little tavern, and it’s all lopped off. It’s a moment before Aziraphale even notices the laurel-style crown, because the new cut makes Crowley’s hair look like cast bronze all on its own. For a moment, Aziraphale’s heart aches for the wildly tumbling curls of mere years prior.

Not that Crowley doesn’t look rather—fetching—with short hair. It brings out his jawline and lets show that telltale mark of the serpent by his ear. The back of his neck is—well— _tempting_. And Aziraphale can imagine the sensation of drawing his fingers through those finer, shorter locks. Still enough there that one could get a good, firm grip, if desired.

Aziraphale’s so shocked at his visceral reaction that he can hardly form words. “ _Still a demon then?”_ What kind of a question was that? What sort of nonsense is dribbling out between his lips? Did he just _invite the demon for oysters?_ Why can’t he stop his lips from moving?

What happened to Crowley’s _hair?_

-

  1. _Styled_



Some centuries later, Aziraphale is still puzzling over the supposed contrast between the physical and the divine. That is, he began questioning in Rome whether Crowley’s hair was just a part of his current shell, or truly a part of _him_. After all, they could be utterly dissolved and yet still come back hale and hearty, after a massive headache’s worth of forms. So did their _bodies_ hold any intrinsic value? Or were “ _they”_ existent only in their incorporeal souls?

Aziraphale speculated on a purely academic level, and certainly not out of wonder whether he admired the hair or the demon attached.

Scandinavia is lovely this time of year, with the colors in the sky and the skalds telling their stories. Aziraphale’s just back from making sure a certain gentleman survives the winter. He plays at being the mysterious stranger, just passing through a small village, reliant on hospitality. The warmth of the longhouse fire and its companionship are well worth the less-than-delectable dried meat he’s served, of which he eats just enough to be polite.

“Such a busy winter,” he overhears one of the women say, “Must be trouble afoot in other worlds.”

“What’re you on about, Hilde?”

“Two such strangers in one winter? When we barely see a southerner come through during the light months? They’re gods or giants in disguise, mark my words.”

 _Two?_ Aziraphale thinks to himself. His eyes explore the corners of the longhouse and—stars above! How did he not see before?

Crowley is there next to a far brazier, sitting on a fur with his legs crossed. Two children are behind him and he chats comfortably while they— _they braid his hair._

His hair’s grown out again, clearly—he could blend in with any of the warriors here. His beard (and isn’t _that_ new) is already neatly trimmed and braided in the local style, and the two girls flitting around him are making the rest of his head look equally respectable.

He watches Crowley laugh with them. One of the girls tries to teach him a clapping game, at which Crowley pretends to need more help than he does. The girls are both patient and teasing.

“Stunned” doesn’t begin to describe Aziraphale’s state. He can neither move nor breathe nor do anything but gawk. This isn’t—this doesn’t—? A demon is here playing with children, letting them practice braiding on his hair, _evidently without any ulterior motive._

This cannot be. Crowley has even said that he _hates_ children.

Should he intervene? Sneak away? Watch, and try to figure out what Crowley’s up to? Aziraphale is stuck in indecision too long; the choice is taken from him when Crowley glances his direction.

The demon’s brows creep up behind his dark glasses.

Utterly at a loss, Aziraphale waves a little.

Crowley continues gaping, not even closing his mouth. The girls catch on and begin staring, too. Without his consent, the angel’s legs start moving towards the group. He still hasn’t thought of anything to say by the time he gets there.

The girls hide a bit behind Crowley, and if _that’s_ not backwards--!

“What are you _doing_ here, my dear?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley’s mouth moves, but doesn’t manage to say anything.

The smaller of the two girls speaks up. “Lord Crowley has been visiting since he helped fight off the Danes. Are you a Dane? …you sort of look funny.” She’s scrutinizing his hair. Her sister stomps on her foot.

“I… no. I’m not a Dane.” Aziraphale tries to smile at the children, but he still feels quite out of his element. And Crowley is still broken, apparently, so no help there. “Please, don’t let me interrupt.” He sits primly on a nearby stool.

A bit more warily, the girls continue styling the mass of red curls. Crowley’s genuine smile has been replaced with something distant, his laughter dampened. Aziraphale curses his own foolishness. Something in him is desperately sad to have accidentally tainted such a pure moment, especially for a being who must know almost none.

The young ladies scamper off after they’re done, while Crowley and Aziraphale hold onto mugs of ale and look at the central fire.

The first words Crowley says are, “If you ever mention this again, so help me, I will find an innocent village and I will burn it down.”

“Why? It was just _wonderful._ I had no idea you could—”

“Do. _Not._ Finish that sentence, angel.”

Aziraphale swallows.

“Well, it looks lovely, my dear.”

“Shut up!”

Reflecting later on this interaction, Aziraphale answers his question: yes, Crowley’s body is a part of the intrinsic _him._ His hair and his walk and his smirk are all a part of him, just as his mischievous humor and nuanced appreciation of the world and that deep well of caring that Aziraphale knows exists, deep down. And that gleaming, tumbling mess of braids would mean nothing to him, if it weren’t attached to the being it’s attached to.

-

  1. _Disheveled_



Crowley always remembers little things about being human that even Aziraphale forgets. They’re in a crowded, noisy throng of dancers—he sweats to match everyone present, even though it’s totally unnecessary. He finds out where the clean bathrooms are, and which crosswalks are automated, and who is mean to their pets. He can guess how people are feeling or what they’ll do without ever bothering to touch their minds.

Almost no angel or demon Aziraphale’s ever known could understand _people_ like Crowley.

Details are important to Crowley, and he’s attentive to them almost always. None of his possessions is allowed the slightest deficiency. His appearance is calculated to the stitch. So Aziraphale is naturally concerned when he bursts into the bookstore looking—well—rather like a sodden rat. His clothes are ripped; his hair’s plastered against his face. He doesn’t even miracle himself dry, and Aziraphale has to do it himself before rain drips onto the strategically-placed ( _ ~~he swears~~ )_ piles of books.

“Having a day, then?” he inquires as Crowley collapses in a heap on the backroom couch.

“You’re closed, now,” Crowley says, snapping. The low hum of the lights in the main store disappears. Aziraphale accepts the seeming-imposition, rearranging his mental schedule without a single thought. _~~(Although he later thinks that he probably ought to have thought at least a thought.) But instead, he asks,~~_

“Cup of tea?”

The look Crowley shoots at him has literally withered plants before.

Aziraphale hums, nods, and puts the kettle on, but quietly opens a Flam Noble Rosé for good measure.

It’s several drinks in before Crowley speaks.

“Ever wonder if our job is full of shit?”

“I might, if I had _your_ job.”

“It’s not _my_ fucking job. I watched an angel kill a kid today.”

Aziraphale closes his eyes and wishes he had something to say to that. He’s seen it, too. Saying “ _I’m sure they had a good reason”_ isn’t going to help. Aziraphale’s not even certain that they did, not that he would ever utter those words.

Crowley abandons his glass and takes the bottle, downing nearly half of it in a go.

“I’m used to people _dying._ Been used to that since frickin’ Enoch. And killing, too, fuck. I’m sorry. Dunno why this one is so… he was a kid.”

Aziraphale nods from the other end of the couch.

“I’m sorry, Crowley.” The words are quiet, inadequate, but they’re all he has.

Crowley shakes his head, throws himself flat on the couch again.

“Made me wonder bout all the kids I’ve killed. Young soldiers, temptations. You know.” He waves his hands about. “Iss’ like Noah again. Why participate in that kind of fucking ineffability? What’s the _point_?”

Millenia of _it’s not our place to question_ conditioning rears up in Aziraphale’s mind—but it is a really, really good question. Crowley removes his glasses simply to pinch the bridge of his nose. His face is precariously close to Aziraphale’s lap. The angel’s hand lifts, but then aborts its motion midair. He and Crowley don’t have that kind of relationship, he tells himself ~~( _never mind that they could, if only he weren’t alone in his—oh, nevermind.)_~~

“ _Say_ something. You’re the best of all of them, so say something. Tell me why.” Crowley’s more candidly vulnerable now than he has been in fifty-nine centuries. It thaws Aziraphale’s courage, makes his own insecurities less meaningful—and his hand makes its way to Crowley’s hair, gently stroking it from the demon’s face.

“I wish I had an answer,” Aziraphale admits.

Crowley closes his eyes, leans in to the angel’s touch. “You help…er’ryone. If all angels were like you, Hell wouldn’t stan’ a chance.”

Now that his hand’s started touching Crowley’s hair, and Crowley hasn’t reacted negatively, Aziraphale’s scared to stop lest he draw attention to the action. It’s not a hardship, however, to run his fingers through those copper locks until the demon passes out into a miraculously dreamless sleep.

-

  1. _It tickles!_



Aziraphale thought he understood intercourse, what with being around for its inception and subsequently reading a variety of pertinent sources. But Crowley has _many_ things to teach him.

It isn’t long after _The Macarons Incident,_ as Aziraphale will come to call it (Crowley refuses to acknowledge the phrase), that he learns it is okay to be selfish sometimes. Aziraphale tries to insist that he wants to do more than _sit_ there, but Crowley’s smile is that one that promises wicked delights.

“Let me take care of you for oncsse, Angel. I promise I’ll get as much pleasssure out of it as you.” How can Aziraphale say no to that? 

Not long after, Crowley is writhing on Aziraphale’s lap, watching his angel watch him with a flushed, heavy-lidded gaze. Aziraphale suspects he’s showing off, but doesn’t call him on it—after all, he’s very much enjoying the results.

There is much to admire in the view.

Despite all evidence to the contrary, the demon does, in fact, possess a pelvic bone. He’s exceptionally sensitive along the line of his hip, which is where Aziraphale is gripping and stroking his thumb while he gets ridden to within a molecule of his existence.

His demon’s eyes fall closed, which means Aziraphale can study his face without restraint. Every tiny reaction is another bit of Crowley to fill in his mental catalogue of everything there is to know about him. Aziraphale nearly has a complete collection. Every gasp, every tic gets hoarded away; he’s greedy for more. Has been, always.

Aziraphale’s not meant to be “doing the work,” but it’s hardly work, is it? He can’t help but let his hand inch closer to where they’re joined, to touch where it will make Crowley make _that_ face, that choked almost-sobbing sound that is one of Aziraphale’s favorite noises in all creation.

Crowley loses some of his sinuous grace, then. Once his focus is shot, his head leans forward, and Aziraphale is delighted to learn how the demon’s loose hair _tickles_ as it showers over his face.

It’s a little curtain, separating them from everything else. That gorgeous copper hair he’s admired for so long, suddenly his to touch, _for real_. When he does, though, running fingertips along Crowley’s scalp, the demon’s eyes snap open. Their locked gaze is too intense, too raw, and Aziraphale tries to look away. Crowley stops him with a kiss. Their foreheads touch as Crowley works them both up to white-hot bliss.

The softness of his hair and worship in his eyes and blinding heat between them overwhelms Aziraphale all at once. They hold each other for long, long after their lovemaking is done.

-

+1. _Marry Me_

Making vows before God means less than nothing to Crowley. They know each other’s hearts, and he’s content for the first time in millennia. Why mess things up when they’re already perfect?

So a wedding is not a thing they _need,_ but Crowley is surprised how badly he wants to _give it_ to Aziraphale. Just a little thing, he says—dressing up, going somewhere, inviting the few people they know. A small ceremony making their promises to _each other_ , in front of _their_ side.

Aziraphale bursts into tears when Crowley mentions it. He immediately knows this is going to be a very long six months.

They could miracle it up overnight, but Aziraphale has ideas about _tradition_ and _anticipation_ and _giving time for the wedding invitations to arrive in the post._ Crowley couldn’t give two flying fucks over the post, but the whole point was for the sappy smile Aziraphale gets when picking out stationary, so he puts up with it.

Besides, something deep inside the demon _purrs_ with possessive satisfaction at the thought of claiming Aziraphale for the world to see. _This angel loves_ me, _suckers._

It is all going just fine until mere moments before everything’s meant to happen.

Newt scampers out of their rented bungalow nearly in tears. “I know it’s your wedding and everything,” he mumbles, “But your boyfriend’s a bit of a cunt.”

Aziraphale marches inside to demand an explanation. Crowley can’t just act like this on _the big day,_ possibly the _biggest_ day. They only have three friends, for Her sake! All the froth he’s managed to work up, though, dissolves when he enters the bedroom. It reeks of distress and despair. Crowley is pacing.

“Now what’s this, then?” Aziraphale murmurs, and Crowley’s face snaps up. His expression melts—almost in a good, but then in the _worst possible_ way.

“I dunno if we should do this, love.” Crowley is equally quiet.

Aziraphale trembles at the sudden realization of a thousand secret fears; the sound he makes is terrible and terrified; the air itself trembles.

“Don’t you dare say that. You don’t get to say that, not now.”

“If you tie yourself to me—listen. There’s Heaven and Hell to worry about, there’s eternity to get sick of me, you’re going to figure out that I’m—well. Me. And we don’t have a ‘til death do us part’ clause.”

“I’m rather grateful for that fact,” Aziraphale points out, but Crowley barrels on.

“What if we’re deluding ourselves? Because it’s just—it’s convenient, innit? Since we’ve been outcast by everyone else.”

“Pardon my language, my dear, but that is a crock of shit.”

At least the vulgarity gets the demon’s attention.

Aziraphale continues: “I’ve had millennia. _I know you._ And I thought we’d left the Angel and Demon thing behind. _Our Side,_ remember? You’re the one that never cared about those things, darling.”

“I still look an awful lot like a demon,” Crowley whispers, knowing that it’s superfluous and pathetic but needing to voice that fear anyways.

“Yes. And if I wake up to find you’ve sewn any hapless animals to your head, I shall be very cross.”

Crowley sighs.

“Of course this is a joke to you. You’re already perfect with all your, your, angelitude. Meanwhile I’ve got _these—”_ he points to his eyes, “to remind me that I’m fallen every day. Even if it is a crock of shit. And once you’re looking at it every day too, you’ll figure it out. You don’t get over eternity of being a good little soldier in just two years, apocalypse or no.”

Aziraphale looks down for a moment to collect his thoughts and rein in his feelings.

This is when he notices the crushed sunglasses on the ground—perhaps made so by a certain Newton Pulsifer, if his guess isn’t off.

Aziraphale supposes a kiss would not be out of order. It is soft and tentative, as reverent as their very first. Then, Aziraphale traces his fingers over Crowley’s eyes.

“I love these,” he says. Crowley meets his gaze, wary but unshrinking, and Aziraphale continues: “Every good memory I have in the past six thousand years involves these eyes. They remind me that you’re _different,_ and that’s a _good_ thing, my dear. Normal was just terrible.” Crowley gives a slightly exasperated smile at that.

“I love how you move,” Aziraphale pauses to trace a hand down his lover’s body, “It’s so much like your other side. I feel like it’s our secret, that the snake is still in you. Everyone else looks but I get to really _see._

“I love, I really and truly _love,_ your hair, my dear.” He pets a ginger lock behind Crowley’s ear, and keeps his fingers buried there. “Always caught my attention. When I was trying to ignore everything between us, _this_ would draw me back. Always so surprising. It changes endlessly with the humans because you _love_ them and that makes all we’ve done worthwhile and it reminds me to look up from my books once in a while.” The angel smiles sheepishly. Crowley kisses him, this time.

“I’m so deeply, incredibly sorry for the centuries I spent denying and belittling you, my dear. Not once have you deserved it. But what we have now and what we’ve saved is precious to me.

“You are already my husband, Crowley. Whether or not we go out there and you let me continue to expound upon the ways I love you. You’re already it, for me. Always have been.”

Crowley shakes his head a little, magics up another pair of sunglasses, and puts them on in what is probably a very cool manner, if you’re into those kinds of things. Lacing his fingers into his angel’s and squeezing, he suggests, “Suppose we’ll go make it official then.”

And so they do.


End file.
